crimson naivety

I have a good friend in Boston with whom I'm writing a book, and I wrote this as my family was driving away and the city lights were getting smaller and smaller in the back windshield.

Encroaching trees conceal this purple depression that overtakes me (twilight-covered) on the nights when barbed wire lines our faces & Boston is receding in the distance. All I have is a box of un-mailed postcards waiting to fly in the breeze.

You, the startling neon drug dream, would laugh at my wide-eyed disillusionment with this blood red southern sky. As it is, my ink is bleeding, so mascara runs rivulets down my scarlet cheeks like modern art.

I wish someone would install a drinking fountain in your desert eyes, because this will never work.

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